


Sweet-Spot High

by Sh_Boom_69



Series: Song Inspired Tales [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Gallavich, M/M, but no violence or anything, micklovesian, season 3 I think, yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:20:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sh_Boom_69/pseuds/Sh_Boom_69
Summary: Sometimes, in moments of sweet-spot-high, and airiness and loud undulating emotions of satisfaction, and free, free, free, he looks at Ian.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Song Inspired Tales [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612804
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46





	Sweet-Spot High

**Author's Note:**

> -this is before Terry finds him and the drama begins. It is my take on it anyways.  
> -the song I based this off or reminds me so heavily of them is finally/beautiful stranger by halsey.  
> -anywhos, enjoy!

It is apparent this wouldn’t be happening if they weren’t in the sweet spot of being high. The part of the high where laughter swaggers out of their mouths when there isn’t anything funny, and their heads swirl with an airy freeness, and they dance to music neither of them truly like but they don’t bother to change it because they’re together and maybe that is enough. Maybe it’s enough Mickey is sitting on the couch, and sipping a beer and watching Ian wave his long arms above his head, and sway his hips. Maybe its enough for now to bask in the glory of each other, and Mickey would never say any gay shit like that out loud, but maybe it is. 

Sometimes, in moments of sweet-spot-high, and airiness and loud undulating emotions of satisfaction, and _free, free, free_ , he looks at Ian. Not in a faggy way though, because Mickey isn’t gay and liking what he likes don’t make him a bitch, and when he’s done, he’s _done, done, done_ , because he can walk away from this. It is just sex, good, great, wonderful sex, and what do they think? They’re boyfriend and girlfriend here? But sometimes, like now, he looks at Ian and remembers, and thinks about things he would normally not dare. 

Ian laughs, and he can feel a press of a foot kicking against his leg, and the quiet, free laughter mirrors the loud, trapped, yearning for freedom laughter echoing off the alleyway. He remembers giddiness raking its fingertips in the hollows of his being as he pushed a hand on Ian’s chest, horsing around, running away, laughing loudly, and temporarily forgetting his imprisonment inside his mind, and an echo of words bounces off his mind like the laughs off the walls of the alley; words he’d speak earnestly much, much later but always felt because not everyone gets to blurt out how they fucking feel every minute. 

_“What you and I have makes me free.”_

Ian moves his hips side-to-side and wiggles his eyebrows and somehow the ridiculousness of his waving arms reminds him of biting into a candy bar, and raising his eyebrows and his acrid voice contrasting greatly with the taste, “Mm, its sweet. I like ‘em sweet.” It reminds him of pain, of skin being pulled up so Ian can move under it like an advance virus, and then his teeth ache with the urge to bite into Ian like a fucking snickers bar. It forces the ugly, dangerous, terrifying urge to yell at the top of his lungs that he’s gay, and _he takes it_ , and _he fucking likes it_ to rear its ugly fat fucking mug, and he has to grit his teeth from admitting, 

_“I’m fucking gay, big ol’ ‘mo.”_ But he will never say that because he can’t be now, and he will never be able to. Its too dangerous, inaccurate, terrifying. 

Ian locks his green, sour apple eyes with his and grins and Mickey remembers. He remembers every occasion the green, accepting, and innocent caught his but stops on the first time he ever truly saw them. Panting, terrified bleeding into confidence, and clothes shedding off their body to lay haphazardly on the floor, and Terry almost catching them. He remembers the itching fingertips reaching towards him, increasing his fear, and he remembers promising, “Kiss me and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out,” but who keeps promises anyways? His lips tingle with the memory, and he vows it was only once, a fleeting moment built up on a dare. Didn’t mean he was gay. He couldn’t be, though the truth itched along his spine with touches Ian left there. 

Terry would kill _him—the taste of freedom, laughter, friendship, reds, and greens, and gold and happiness_ —Terry would kill it all. 

Ian bites his lip sinfully, dark eyes hooded, hips swaying seductively, and arms trailing along to the music in the air, and every aspect of _Ian, Ian, Ian_ stabs a pain through his eye, prompting him to rub a thumb against his brow. Déjà vu and words reminding him strangely of a memory encircle Ian, and the sweet-spot-high, and beer increase the familiarity of the words, of the fear, of the heartbreak.

_“I love you.”_

“What are you staring at, Mick?” Ian teases and his voice reminds him of a hand on glass, and a telephone and “I miss you.” and doing his best to get out for whatever fucking reason, that was not Ian. He did not get out early for Ian. It reminds him of concealing a smile when Ian was no longer phased by his brashness with words, and instead smiled at the threat to take his hand off the glass. Mickey didn’t like how much he had liked the attention. 

It all came crashing down around Ian’s words and he took a swig of his beer before scoffing, “As if I was looking at your alien-ass, fire crotch.” 

“No, but you were definitely looking at my dick.” Mickey sucks his teeth, rolling his eyes, and concealing a smile that wanted to come out at this cocky, alien-looking dork. He glances away, then glances back, and finishes off his beer before setting it on the coffee table next to the other beers, 

“You talk too damn much. Wanna get on me?” 

_“Fuck you is what you were invited to.”_

_“It means good times, bad, sickness, health…all that shit.”_

_“Get the fuck off of him!”_

_“I love you, Mickey Milkovich,”_ He hears in Ian’s silent, marveling touch when he joins him at the ratty couch, and Mickey strips of his clothing, _“more than anything.”_

Maybe it is enough that Terry isn’t home, and Mandy has gone to where-the-fuck-ever, and Ian and Mickey are in this moment. Maybe it will be enough. 

But then maybe it won’t, and as gay as it sounds, Ian will always be a beautiful stranger. 

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR LEAVING KUDOS YOU WONDERFUL BEINGS. I'LL TRY TO GET THE NEXT PART UP SOON!


End file.
